Page 1060 - bleak-house

an under-current of forefinger.
Time and place cannot bind Mr. Bucket. Like man in the
abstract, he is here to-day and gone to-morrow—but, very
unlike man indeed, he is here again the next day. This eve-
ning he will be casually looking into the iron extinguishers
at the door of Sir Leicester Dedlock’s house in town; and to-
morrow morning he will be walking on the leads at Chesney
Wold, where erst the old man walked whose ghost is propi-
tiated with a hundred guineas. Drawers, desks, pockets, all
things belonging to him, Mr. Bucket examines. A few hours
afterwards, he and the Roman will be alone together com-
paring forefingers.
It is likely that these occupations are irreconcilable with
home enjoyment, but it is certain that Mr. Bucket at present
does not go home. Though in general he highly appreciates
the society of Mrs. Bucket—a lady of a natural detective ge-
nius, which if it had been improved by professional exercise,
might have done great things, but which has paused at the
level of a clever amateur—he holds himself aloof from that
dear solace. Mrs. Bucket is dependent on their lodger (for-
tunately an amiable lady in whom she takes an interest) for
companionship and conversation.
A great crowd assembles in Lincoln’s Inn Fields on the
day of the funeral. Sir Leicester Dedlock attends the cere-
mony in person; strictly speaking, there are only three other
human followers, that is to say, Lord Doodle, William Buffy,
and the debilitated cousin (thrown in as a make-weight),
but the amount of inconsolable carriages is immense. The
peerage contributes more four-wheeled affliction than has

1060 Bleak House